The Last of the Kin of Luthien
by Faethin
Summary: When all the Lords and Ladies of Men of old are but gone, when all the Elves have sailed away and are but gone, and when Old World is but gone and Men rule the New World, yet the line of Luthien remains with us.


              A. N. Inspired by what is perhaps the most original Silmarillion fic I've read, I thought about the idea of meeting a person (be it elf or man) from the ages of the Tolkien universe. Imagine how would it be if an elf came to your house and greeted you, like, "Hey! Howzit going?"!

              Anyway, I hope you like this. C & C is greatly appreciated, for if it's not my first fic, it is my first story fully about Tolkien-universe characters.

              Thanks in advance.

              P. S. Oh! And don't forget to check out Star Daughter's "All Rivers lead to the Sea".

***

San Giani della Sera Home for Orphaned Children did not stood up among the old buildings that stood at downtown Florence. Its grey and chipped walls were marks of its age, and its old and great wooden doors had been covered in dozens of varnish layers applied over the many years that the orphanage had served as a home for the parentless. Several windows were opened at the front of the building, and these were of stained glass of many colours and designs; many of them depicting religious scenes taken from biblical passages. Each morning when the sun rose she would light up the glasses and make the colours spread over the walls of the inner yard like short-lived paintings, announcing the beginning of a new day for the children and the nuns.

              Nevertheless, a grey morning came during mid autumn, and not even the red leaves of the many beeches planted within the garden gave enough hue to change this. Such a day it was when Monica Grigio woke early in the morning, as she usually did, even in the cold of Fall. She rose and sat in her bunk, the nether of a three-fold, and gazed about her yawning. The other girls were all yet asleep, but she liked the silence of a morning when the sun is rising but the cold still lingers strongly about; and she allowed herself to do something she seldom did nowadays and smiled. A small mist issued from her mouth, and she wrapped a soft blanket about her. Still, she stood up and walked to the bathroom with the blanket yet covering her shivering body.

              The image the mirror gave back to her was that of a young teenager of fifteen summers of life in the world, with long and dark hair and  deep grey eyes. Although she spent as much time as she was allowed walking in the parks and streets of Florence her skin was pale, though not white as if that of an ill person. Her face was sad, though she always had thought that the fact of not having parents was not the cause of this; for if her eyes and brows gave her an ever slightly sorrowful look, yet her expression was proud and bright. She stared at her image for a few moments before splashing some water in her face. Cold though it was, she was used to it, for the Home was old and did not have warm water. Her face now paler, she left the dormitory and headed for the chapel. She always tried to be the first to arrive in order to enjoy yet more quietness than in the usually crowded school, and her quiet nature and stern mood had always made her stood up among the other children.

              As she entered through the open doors and sat down on the front-most bench, her eyes were fixed on the crucifix. Though she had always put her trust in her Lord, of late she had been feeling especially lonely and quiet; and the nuns and the other children knew that this was most uncommon in a young woman of her age. Although she was seated in silence, her mind was soon filled with the words of prayer.

              _Padre nostro che sei in il cielo_

_              Santificato sia il tuo nome_

              The silence was thick, and, apart from her own inner words, only the whispers in the leaves as they fell almost echoed in the dome. No child, and not even the nuns would wake on such a cold morning so early; thus she knew that she could be alone for quite a while. And she did not dislike the idea.

              "_Buon giorno_," said a voice behind her, and she was startled enough for her to stand up hastily and look at the door from where the voice had come. The entrance from the streets was closed at this time of the day, for it was opened not until Mass at ten o'clock in the morning. But the person that had spoken was standing beside the doors, staring at her with a strangeness in his eyes. Monica glared at him, but she did not say anything. Rather, she felt slightly frightened, for the man had opened the heavy door-locks without making a sound, and she knew she was alone.

              The man began to walk towards her, and Monica had the strangest of feelings: for though she felt indeed nervous and uneasy she had no desire to run away from the stranger; and she thought that the man gleamed in a soft light yet visible in the twilight of the chapel. She stood up, but did not fled, and faced the stranger; and he was ever approaching with a smile. The silence in the chapel had been disturbed, and Monica forgot for a moment about the person and rued about quietness' departure. The man's footsteps echoed in her surroundings and a short while passed until he was standing in front her; and she could now look at his face.

              The man was tall and straight, and he had also grey eyes; but his shone with a special light that recalled that of the stars on a moonless night. He had dark hair, again in her likeness, and his face was bright and fair. Though he was handsome as none she had seen, yet she could feel no attraction at all for him; but still she wondered about his fairness and how could a man be so perfect in his traits. And she remembered his voice ere he spoke again.

              "Good morning," he said again. "And well met."

              His voice was clear and pure, and she could not help wishing to hear it again.

              But she came back to her senses, and she remembered that the stranger was still a stranger and that he had sneaked soundlessly into an orphaned girls home in the early morning.

              "Who are you?" she said sharply, though she felt that sharp words were not of use with such a fair person. Who can tell what the heart of a girl is like when she meets for the first a man so handsome?

              "Who am I?" he mused, and as his smile faded a little and deep thought issued from his eyes; and Monica thought that his name was not as important as why he had come. "Well, by many names I have been known in my life. Yet I believe that it is not as though as we have enough time having known each other for you to have that answer."

              "What do you want here then?" she asked, and she knew that this answer indeed she would receive.

              "More likely, this question," said the man with a laugh. "I am looking for a person. A girl. Perhaps one of the girls that live here? Can I speak to an adult?

              "No one's awake right now," she said unsurely, remembering she was alone. "Perhaps you could return a bit later?"

              The stranger laughed again.

              "Later?" the man said with another smile at her, and she blushed. "Later? My dear, patience is one of my virtues. However, the time I have spent searching this person would have beaten down any kind of patience by now. Perhaps you can help me?"

              "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," said she quickly, for mistrust had suddenly returned to her before his attempt of asking for something. "Please, if you'd only return later, maybe mother Franca could help you. She's the oldest of the nuns and knows all names of the girls by heart."

              "Maybe not all, but surely you would know the person I am looking for," the man said gazing about him. Monica took a short step backwards. She already heard the voice of Mother Franca yelling at her because of having spoken so long to a stranger.

              "Ah! I see now," the man said noticing her uneasiness. "You are a bit afraid of me."

              "I'm not afraid of you," she said proudly, almost defiantly. "It's just that I don't know who you are; and you won't tell me either. How am I supposed to react at someone who won't even tell me his name?" She went quiet at once. Had she been to insolent with a grown up?

              "Proud as all your lot," said the man kindly, but she wondered about what he had meant by 'her lot'. "Well then, I shall tell you my true name; for I wonder at my own blindness; indeed you must be She that I am looking for. I am Randir, of the kindred of Thingol, though his name is no longer spoken in mortal lands. And I am bidden to find one Monica Grigio that yet lingers in the mortal lands. Are you, indeed, her? Am I mistaken?"

              Monica felt perplexed, but she managed to say stammering: "I… What do you want with her?"

              "Then I am not mistaken," he said still smiling. "But this is odd. How long have you lingered in this land? For I was not told that the last of the kin of Luthien in mortal lands would be so young.

              "Kin of Luthien? What are you talking about?" Monica asked, and the man rose his hand and held it aloft.

              "Please, excuse my hastiness," he said. "I have felt few surprises so close to rejoice in my life. Let me tell you about our beloved Luthien of Doriath."

              He held his right hand out, and she saw that a single ring he bore. "Please," he said again, "let me take you outside; for what I shall sing cannot be heard by any other lest the memory of older days that are forgotten return into this world."

              Monica felt reluctant for a moment, but the man's voice had a soothing effect in her mind, and in her heart as well; and she put her hand in his and allowed him to lead her out into the streets of the city. And forth they went, though the time for the return to her folk was not come yet, and this was but a sign of that.

              The streets were empty, as few folk had risen yet. So they walked, hand in hand, across the street and to the small park that was built not far away from the Home. There in the middle of it was a large fountain said to be a work of the craftsmen of the medieval times. About it there were some benches with large willow trees planted behind each of them, and though the willow is known for the sad air that it has about the park was a fair place were the children would often be found playing. Monica had been to there many times, indeed; and each of the trees was known to her. And when they walked under one of these fair trees Monica heard Randir quietly speak in a language strange and fair: "_Ai! I edregol Tasarion!"_

              They sat down at one of the benches, and she looked about her in search for somebody; for since they had arrived she had had the impression of been watched. And the foresight of the Dunedain was something none could disregard.

              At length the man spoke. "A very fair place this is," he said. "As far as the reckoning of men goes, that is. Yet, this quietness will be enough." He stood up and called again in the strange tongue: "_Lasto! __Lyn tirithal I laeren Tinuviel ne lam Edain o Italia._

And he sang in a clear voice a song fair in words and music, and it was sung in the tongue of the men of Italy.

              A. N. Hang on! A poem is something you feel; but a metered poem is something you build, and I'm all out of bricks right now. Don't worry though: I'll have it done right away. In the mean time, please leave your comments on this fic. Really, I love to get constructive criticism from someone that actually took the time to review my work. Thanks in advance.

              Oh! And I almost forgot the translations: 

Italian: 'Padre nostro che sei in il cielo, santificato sia il tuo nome', 'Our father who art in heaven, be holy thy name.' 'Buon Giorno,' 'Good day'; also note that 'Grigio', Monica's name means 'Grey'.

              Sindarin: 'Ai! I edregol Tasarion', 'Ah! The beautiful Willow.' 'Lasto! Lyn tirithal I laeren Tinuviel ne lam Edain o Italia', 'Listen! You shall hear my song about Tinuviel in the tongue of the Men of Italy'.


End file.
